


Somnus

by brokibrodinson



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/pseuds/brokibrodinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham had strange dreams some nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnus

**Author's Note:**

> oops...  
> I'm meant to be working on a new Shaytham fic but I decided to dredge up and finish off this old thing instead. Basically Haytham and Altaïr have consistently been my favourite AC characters over the years, so a couple of years ago I decided I was going to write porn about them, and I've finally finished it.
> 
> er... hope you enjoy?

Haytham had strange dreams some nights.

He assumed it was because of his bloodline's unfortunate ties to the Assassin Brotherhood that were what caused him to dream of fleeting imagery; an old fortress on a cliff; a brightly lit villa; wild jungles of bright green.

Though his loyalty to the Templar Order had never wavered, Haytham could not deny his curiosity about the dreams and had done his research; he had no shortage of informative resources at his disposal given his position. The dreams felt utterly irrelevant to him, but they were interesting, and seemed altogether harmless, so he never felt there was any cause for concern.

One night however, his dream was different. Whereas usually he felt like a passive observer, fragments of memories and symbols flitting through his mind, this time he felt... Solid. Corporeal. 

He seemed to be suspended in empty space, surrounded by nothing but white light. With a start he realised he could control himself - strange for a dream - so he looked down at himself and was surprised to find himself fully dressed, despite remembering undressing for bed.

"So," a low voice broke the piercing silence, making Haytham look up in surprise. "You are the Templar Kenway, are you not?"

Before him stood a tall, slender man dressed in white robes, his hood pulled up to obscure his face. He recognised the robes at once from illustrations in a book he'd read once; an Assassin from the Levantine Brotherhood, now extinct. Immediately he suspected he knew exactly who stood before him.

"As you are Altaïr," he replied calmly, feeling no fear despite the knowledge that a fully trained Master Assassin stood before him.

A smirk curved the Assassin's scarred lips, confirming his guess.

"Where are we?" Haytham asked, looking around him. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Why should I tell you?" drawled Altaïr. "You're a Templar. This may not be real, but perhaps I should stab you anyway, just to make sure." He flexed his wrist threateningly, the light glinting off the steel of his hidden blade. 

"So this is just a dream," Haytham mused thoughtfully, not feeling particularly threatened. If Altaïr had really wanted him dead he would have attacked him by now. "I wonder why it is you're here."

"It is you who should not be here," Altaïr intoned, sounding bored. "This is a place for Assassins. The place of connection to link us to the one we wait for."

Haytham rolled his eyes. He had long been disillusioned with the tall tales of Those Who Came Before, and all the accompanying prophecies. Reginald's fanaticism had seen to that.

"So I have managed to slip through as well, because of my heritage," he mused. How bothersome. 

Altaïr grinned, teeth flashing from beneath his hood. "You catch on quickly," he commented, amused. "But you've lingered here long enough. I shall send you on your way." He began to advance, his steps swift and predatory.

In all honesty, Haytham was already bored of the seemingly endless emptiness he had found himself in and had no real desire to linger; the Assassins could keep their lofty secrets.

However, his pride would never allow him to simply stand still and let himself be slain, especially not by this arrogant scrap of an Assassin, barely more than a youth. He might be the famous Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad but he'd given Haytham no reason to be particularly impressed thus far. 

Altaïr sighed impatiently as he watched Haytham slip into a combat stance, matching it with his own. "I see you are going to be difficult," he commented. "Very well, I hope you make it worth my while, old man."

Haytham sneered at the Assassin’s brash arrogance but said nothing, drawing his sword in one smooth movement and settling into a guard position. Altaïr followed suit, and they stared each other down, blades held at the ready.

Altaïr swung first with an impatient huff, taking the offensive with a series of slashes and chops designed to fluster his opponent and drive him backwards.

Haytham would not be so easily intimidated, blocking each attack without much effort, their weapons colliding with the ringing sound of steel on steel. Soon they were fighting in earnest, Altaïr’s fluid swiftness an even match for Haytham’s brutal efficiency.

However, it soon became clear to Haytham that the younger man was letting his overconfidence cloud his judgement, blocking his attacks just that little bit too lazily. Haytham knew Altaïr was the Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood for many years before his death and found himself questioning their judgement at elevating this cocky young Assassin to such an important position.

He supposed this must be an earlier incarnation of the man, from a time before he had been forcefully taught humility.

Either way, Haytham was growing tired of Altaïr’s dismissive manner, and decided it was time he was taught a lesson.

With a quick twist of his wrist, the Assassin was disarmed, his sword clattering to the floor with an odd echoing sound.

Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Haytham swiftly launched himself at Altaïr, knocking him onto his back and straddling his waist to hold him still. The point of his blade rested at the Syrian’s throat.

“Yield,” Haytham breathed darkly.

Altaïr’s scarred lips twisted into a snarl. “Never,” he snapped, twisting and squirming beneath Haytham’s weight in an effort to free himself.

Haytham simply relaxed his weight further, his sword point now kissing the Assassin’s throat.

“I won’t ask again,” he said smugly.

Altaïr stilled at last, though Haytham could practically see the cogs turning behind that golden gaze, waiting for an opportunity.

“That’s better,” Haytham said, pleased. He paused, enjoying the defiance and frustration he saw in his opponent’s eyes. “What’s to be done with you then,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Free me,” Altaïr snarled at once.

“Not just yet,” the Templar decided. “Not until I’m finished with you.”

Confusion now mingled with Altaïr’s fury. “What more do you want from me?” he demanded. “I won’t tell you anything.”

Haytham chuckled. “I don’t particularly care about anything you could tell me anyway,” he said offhandedly. Raising a hand to Altaïr’s face, he carefully traced the scar that crossed his mouth with a gentle finger.

“I wonder,” he said softly, “how many more scars adorn your flesh...” With one swift motion, he had pushed off Altaïr’s hood from his face.

“Stop this-” Altaïr began harshly, only to be cut off as Haytham’s mouth descended on his, kissing him firmly.

Altaïr growled, and bit at his lip in retaliation, only succeeding in making Haytham smirk and thrust his tongue into his mouth, not pulling away until they were both breathless.

“Stop,” Altaïr repeated with less conviction this time. His cheeks had darkened, though with embarrassment or pleasure Haytham was not yet certain. He was rather a handsome man, the Englishman decided, with his sun-kissed skin, sharp cheekbones and full mouth.

“Do you truly wish me to stop?” he asked, letting his fingers brush lightly against the other man’s cheek.

Altaïr scowled, turning his head to side, but said nothing.

Haytham decided to take that as an invitation to continue, his head dipping low again so he could drag his mouth hotly against the Assassin’s throat, drawing a suppressed sound of pleasure from the younger man.

Teasing him further, he dropped light kisses along his jaw with the occasional scrape of teeth, before moving back down to his pulse point and beginning to suck a mark onto the skin.

Altaïr was determined not to make a noise, not to show how much Haytham’s attentions were affecting him, but the feeling of the Templar’s tongue laving the sensitive flesh over his pulse crumbled the last of his resistance. He groaned, trying to lift his hips to grind his growing arousal against the body above him.

He didn’t quite succeed, but Haytham understood his intentions and raised himself just enough to allow movement between them, both men exhaling sharply at the friction as they rocked against each other.

“Let me up,” Altaïr ordered breathlessly, giving Haytham a beseeching look from beneath lowered lashes.

Haytham raised an eyebrow. “To do what?”

The Assassin smirked ferally, rocking his hips in a slow fluid undulation that had Haytham’s breath catching in his throat. “You will see,” he teased.

Suspicious but nonetheless intrigued, Haytham pushed himself up and rose to his feet, ready to pounce upon him once more if the Syrian tried anything he didn’t approve of.

It was unnecessary however, as Altaïr simply moved into a kneeling position and began to fiddle with Haytham’s belt buckle, dexterous fingers soon undoing the fastenings on his trousers so he could palm his hard length.

“This is not your first time with a man, I take it?” Haytham commented in amusement, a hiss escaping him at the younger man’s touch.

Altaïr simply smirked at him before shifting closer and taking the tip of his shaft between his lips, offering little more than a few tantalising laps of his tongue.

Haytham all but growled in pleasure, his hips thrusting forward slightly in an effort to encourage Altaïr to take more of him.

Altaïr obliged, golden eyes glinting wickedly as his lips dragged further down the Templar’s cock, licking and sucking at him all the way down. Opening his throat with ease borne of experience, he took the full length of him into his mouth and swallowed, humming in amusement as the action caused Haytham to curse and his hips to jerk.

Mildly annoyed at Altaïr’s cockiness, Haytham allowed his hips to snap forward in earnest, fucking deeper into the Assassin’s mouth.

Altaïr’s eyes widened and he tried to pull away, to gain some space but Haytham would not allow it, maintaining a harsh grip on his collar to hold him in place. Not until he had at last spilled down his throat with a groan did he release his grip.

Altaïr retreated at once, choking and spluttering. Once he caught his breath he narrowed his eyes in a reproachful glare, to which Haytham simply smirked unapologetically.

“What are you going to do for me?” Altaïr inquired meaningfully once he’d recovered, his own arousal unflagging from beneath his clothing.

“What would you _like_ me to do?” Haytham asked in mock innocence.

Altaïr snorted at him, rising to his feet with silent predatory grace and approaching the Templar with the customary sway of his hips as he walked.

Coming to a stop directly in front of Haytham, he grinned and leaned forward to kiss him fiercely, biting down on his bottom lip and making the older man groan.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered once he had pulled away. “Or I’ll shred them.” He raised his hidden blade menacingly.

Haytham huffed irritably but did as he was told, pulling off each layer until he stood bare before Altaïr.

Altaïr’s sharp golden eyes raked heatedly across the Templar’s body as he busied himself with drawing his erection out from his trousers and stroked it lazily.

Haytham’s eyes glinted challengingly in return, daring him to do his worst.

The Syrian obliged.

Stalking close again, he abruptly shoved Haytham down to the floor so he was on his hands and knees, ignoring Haytham’s grunt of discomfort. He sucked on several of his own fingers for a moment, wetting them.

Haytham hissed and jerked as the first finger entered him, forcing Altaïr to distract him with kisses along his throat as he continued to stretch him with his second and third fingers.

When at last he began to push inside him with his cock, Haytham tensed up at once and it was several moments before Altaïr could continue to ease inside him. Haytham was all tight and gritty heat stretched around his cock, and he knew it must burn the man beneath him so he took his time thrusting slowly in to the hilt.

Exhaling and relaxing considerably, Haytham wordlessly pushed back against the Assassin, indicating he was permitted to continue.

Altaïr began at a slow pace to let the Englishman adjust further, but soon grew impatient, having been denied release for too long.

His hands tightening their grip where they had settled on Haytham’s waist, he increased the pace, rocking into him with increasing fervour.

Haytham gritted his teeth and bore the pain and discomfort quietly, willing Altaïr to climax quickly.

He was surprised therefore when Altaïr’s cock happened to brush a place inside him he hadn’t known existed, causing him to gasp in shocked pleasure and arch back into the contact, wanting more.

Altaïr smiled secretly to himself and did what he could to maintain the angle, thrusting long and hard and making both their breaths catch in their throat.

At the pace they were going it was no surprise that it didn’t take long for Altaïr to come, muffling his shout against Haytham’s back as he spilled inside him.

Altaïr pulled out, then before the Templar could even comprehend what was happening, he had released his hidden blade and thrust it into Haytham’s throat, blood spraying from the wound.

“Farewell, Kenway,” Altaïr murmured, his fingers threading through other man’s dark hair as his consciousness steadily faded. “Return to your own time.”

Collapsing to the floor, Haytham’s body seemed to shatter into fragments of light as Altaïr looked on, before finally dissolving into nothing.

 

Haytham woke up with a start, immediately pressing a hand to the phantom pain in his throat as he looked around wildly. Realising he was safe, he exhaled slowly.

He was back in his own bed, and was very much alive.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Haytham settled back down under the covers and fell back asleep.

He never dreamt of Altaïr again.

**Author's Note:**

> okay someone make me write that shaytham now


End file.
